I force my eyes open as I count the ruts in the driveway, deep because of the rain. My right leg is curled up under my bottom; my left leg is stretched out in front of me.
I’ve only just found the button that releases the seatbelt when Tor opens my door. I roll my ankle around before I get out, but I’m careful to put most of weight on my right leg. As I’m straightening my dress over my thighs, he slams the door closed then spins on his heel and stalks ahead of me.
I forgot to turn on the porch light so it takes a little while to find the keyhole. The door swings open and I peer inside.
‘No one’s broken in,’ I say, flicking on the porch and hall lights. ‘Sorry about falling asleep. Do you still want to talk?’
‘May I come in?’
Seashell is mewling in the kitchen. I open a can of tuna but she ignores the food and sidles up to Tor, wiping her white fluffy body against his leg. As I wash my hands he squats to rub under her chin. He’s in profile, and smiling. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him all night. My heart skips a beat. I look away when he stands again.
‘Where can we talk?’ he says.
I switch on two lamps in the living room and sit on an armchair. When I look up I see Tor is still standing. The sofa is old-fashioned and long and wide, but I haven’t cleaned up for a few days so it’s covered in a jumble of things. I get up again and pick up an oilskin coat, children’s books, my iPad and a milk crate filled with toys, and dump them next to the bookcase. Then I plump up the cushions.
‘There’s room for you now,’ I say.
Tor ignores what I’ve said and walks to the window. Clouds obscure the moon but the darkened outline of the stable block is visible. So is the silhouette of the ghost gum.
‘It’s obvious Alessandro is hiding something about your father,’ Tor says, turning. ‘But it’s unlikely he had anything to do with his death.’
‘Right.’
‘I had a message from Nate. Beresford isn’t a problem.’
‘I already knew that.’
‘Which leaves us with Ferguson.’ He pauses. ‘You spent twenty minutes alone with him. What did you talk about?’
I don’t know that Tor will care about Angelina’s investment with Marc, but he’d be bound to look into it and report it to Eric. I can’t risk that happening.
‘Marc and I didn’t talk about anything you need to know.’
Tor turns his back again and yanks the curtains closed, then strides towards the kitchen and shuts the door. He walks towards me, swiping at his fringe. His words are clipped.
‘This isn’t working, Golden. I can’t do this.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to work with you. What I want …’ His gaze sweeps over me, scanning my face, my body, my legs and my boots. When his pupils dilate it darkens his eyes. He closes them for a moment before opening them again. ‘I want more from you.’
I take a step backwards. ‘I told you I couldn’t do that, when we were under the scribbly bark tree.’
He mutters under his breath. And then takes two steps. I’m not sure what happens first, me putting my hands on his chest, my fingers unfurling and grasping shirt, or him holding the tops of my arms. I’m afraid. And aroused.
‘Golden?’
I drag my eyes upwards. My gaze stalls at his mouth. ‘Yes.’
‘You flinched when Eric said you were difficult.’
‘Notoriously difficult.’ My voice is uneven. ‘I shouldn’t let it get to me.’
He runs his finger up my strap, follows its path over my shoulder. ‘When I say you’re complicated, that doesn’t mean …’
‘What?’ I whisper.
He pulls me closer, linking his arms around my back, burying his face in my hair. His lips move against my neck. ‘I’m not proud of what happened at Randwick, or when I kissed you the second time. I want another chance.’
He’s a spy. He has mind-blowing sex with lawyers and actresses and human rights activists. He’s arrogant and protective and he has to save the world. He wants to set his mind at rest. He wants a kiss. I want him to kiss me.
‘Do you promise it’s only a kiss? Nothing more.’
‘Yes,’ he whispers, his lips moving across my cheek in a tantalising path to my mouth. I open it on a whimper.
He lifts his head and says, ‘All right?’
All I’m capable of doing is looking straight ahead and nodding. He cups my face and kisses me, a tender teasing kiss where his lips skirt over mine but barely touch them. Then he lifts his head once more. He looks relieved that my breath is unsteady, but I’m not about to cry. He takes my hand and rests it against his jaw. Then he says my name.
‘Golden. Is that how you pronounce it?’
It takes me a few seconds to collect my thoughts. ‘If you’re a Shakespearian actor, then yes. But I like the way you usually say it.’
He mumbles against my lips before burying his face in my hair again. His erection, long and hard, is pressed against my stomach. I draw in a breath.
He must guess what I’m worried about. ‘Only a kiss,’ he says.
His kisses are dangerous. But I like it here in his arms. ‘Do you want to take your tie off?’
When he tugs at the knot, I push his hands away. I loosen it and he leans down so I can pull it over his head. His hands slide slowly from my shoulders to my waist as I undo the top three buttons of his shirt. His skin is much darker than mine. His chest is rock hard. I glimpse a nipple, a flat brown disk. His breath hitches when I touch the base of his throat with the backs of my fingers.
‘That’s better,’ I say.
‘Yes.’
When he kisses down the side of my neck, the ache between my thighs intensifies. I stroke his silky hair as he trails open-mouthed kisses along a path from my throat to my breasts.
‘I didn’t know about collarbones,’ I whisper.
He softly groans as he strokes. ‘Neither did I.’
As our lips meet again in warm wet kisses, his hands move to my waist. Then they slide to my hips and he lifts me so he’s supporting most of my weight. He expels his breath in a hiss when I squeeze my thighs together to clasp his erection more firmly.
‘You’re so slight, Golden. Like a willow.’
I mumble against his lips. ‘Acacia cognata.’
‘That’s a willow?’
I don’t want to talk, I want him to kiss me. But he’s waiting for me to reply. My words run together. ‘It’s a wattle with elongated leaves and branches.’
‘Does it have flowers?’
I kiss him hard on the lips. ‘Of course it does. It’s a wattle. Shhh.’
He growls, and nibbles my ear. ‘I love to hear your voice.’
‘That’s what I say to my children.’
‘I know that. You care about them.’
There’s something in his eyes. Pain? ‘Tor?’ I touch the side of his face. ‘What are you thinking about?’
He hesitates. ‘It’s nothing.’
When we kiss again he doesn’t hold back, his lips and tongue taking over my mouth, finding the places where they’ve been before. We’re both breathless as he lifts his head, his eyes glowing black in the shadowy light.
My dress has ridden up to my hips. I’m pulling it down over my bottom when our hands meet. As he grasps my fingers, his hands brush my thighs. He’s still for a moment. Then he feathers his hands over my skin again. He rests his forehead against mine and mutters.
‘Oh fuck, Golden. Fuck fuck fuck.’
‘What?’
‘Stockings?’
He scoops me up into his arms. I’m so surprised I don’t say a word as he carries me to the sofa. He sits me at an angle so I’m leaning against the armrest, and then he kneels on the floor facing me. At first he’s serious. And then, as if he’s made up his mind about something, the corner of his mouth lifts and he wraps an arm around my back. The silence stretches.
I fiddle with a button on his shirt. ‘That’s twice you’ve carried me. I’m not sur
e you should.’
My hair obscures my face. He puts it behind my ear. ‘I lifted you when we danced as well.’
‘Three times, then.’
We breathe slow shaky kisses into each other’s mouths. My nipples are sensitive when he touches my breasts through my dress. I undo more of his shirt buttons and feel the contours of his chest and abdomen; his skin is soft but the muscles beneath are sculpted. When his hands stroke my stomach my muscles clench. The ache between my thighs begins to throb.
I tighten my grip on his shoulders when he touches my mouth with his index finger, running it around the outside of my top lip and then across the seam.
My words are muffled. ‘My mouth feels tingly. What have you done to it?’
He draws my bottom lip into his mouth and gently bites. When he lets it go he runs his tongue across it.
‘I like it like this,’ he says.
We’re looking into each other’s eyes when his fingers slip under the garter straps that hold my stockings up. When I still, so does he.
‘You can’t take them off,’ I say.
‘I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.’
His tongue plays with mine as his fingers slide up and down my thighs. My arms circle his neck and my breasts press against his chest. But then he draws back. He speaks against my lips.
‘I’d never hurt you.’
He’s not going to hurt me physically. And it’s too difficult to focus on the other sort of hurt when his hands feather to the insides of my knees and he nudges my legs apart. His warm damp breaths are on my throat. Then I feel them through my dress as he trails kisses from my breasts to my stomach and all the way to my thighs. I thread my fingers through his hair. My knees tremble.
‘Tor? What are you doing?’
He lifts his head and looks into my eyes. His voice is strained. ‘It’s only a kiss.’
He pulls aside the tiny scrap of fabric and puts his mouth on me. At first he’s tantalisingly gentle. But when I gasp and squirm he takes hold of my hips and shuffles me down the sofa. Then he spreads my legs further apart. He licks. And sucks. Until I’m quivering and panting. I’ve never been so hot and restless and …
He lifts his head and our eyes lock. Black as night. Dirty green.
‘So fucking sweet,’ he says.
‘You swear too …’
‘Too …?’ He lays his cheek on my thigh and blows long puffs of breath between my legs.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
His lips curve into a smile. ‘Tell me.’
I moan. ‘Swear too much. You swear too much. Please, Tor.’
I groan in relief when his mouth is on me again. But every time I’m about to climax he pulls back, teasing me until I beg him to touch me there.
‘Here?’ he says, circling with his finger
‘Yes.’
‘Mmmm.’
When he does something with his tongue that he hasn’t done before I explode in a heated panting climax that never seems to end. I’m hot, breathless and limp by the time he lifts his head.
My lids are half closed but his eyes are bright. He straightens my underpants and stockings. He sits on the sofa and pulls me into his arms. He’s careful of my leg as he cradles me on his lap with my legs to one side. I wrap an arm around his neck and move his shirt out of the way. Then I rest my cheek on his throat and breathe in his scent.
After our dance I was angry that he’d made me floppy like a ragdoll. Now I’m secure and content. ‘Nice,’ I say.
He tips my chin up and kisses me, a slow languorous kiss. Everything is foggy. It’s like kissing in a dream.
‘Very nice,’ he says, as he runs strands of my hair through his fingers, and wraps them around his wrist. ‘Open your eyes, Golden.’
I force my eyes open.
‘We’re not done yet,’ he says.
‘But …’ I yawn. ‘Sleepy.’
He slowly shakes his head. ‘Uh uh.’
My dress is around my waist. He unzips the back and takes the hem, pulling it over my head. Then he unzips my boots, the right one quickly, the left one slowly and carefully. He mutters finally as the boots fall to the floor.
Now all I’m wearing is stockings, tiny underpants and a garter slip. It’s a milky coffee colour, with transparent cream panels at the sides.
Tor stares blatantly. His breaths are shallow and his face is flushed.
I can barely keep my eyes open. ‘Sleepy,’ I say.
‘I know, sweetheart.’
His hands skim over my body. He strokes my breasts through the silk, and circles around the nipples until they’re taut. He kisses me as he pulls down the straps.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he says, staring again. He dips his head, circles the aureole and takes the nipple into his mouth. ‘So beautiful,’ he mumbles.
It’s still wet and sensitive between my thighs. His thumb circles as his fingers slide inside me. The sensations I have are new, unfamiliar, unsettling.
He nuzzles my neck. ‘Relax, Golden. Trust me.’
He finds places I didn’t know were there and makes me feel things I didn’t know I could. Until I’m burning up, needy, desperate for more. I grasp his head and shove my tongue into his mouth. Our teeth clash and I taste blood.
He gentles the kiss. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he whispers.
I find a rhythm when he strokes again. I move against his fingers as he kisses my neck and grazes my collarbone with his teeth. He murmurs how much he wants me, how I’m beautiful and ephemeral and frightening. And when I climax he captures my lips in a bruising kiss, muffling the sounds of my sobs and moans and whimpers. He brushes the hair off my face. My eyes are closed but I can hear the unevenness of his breath. He adjusts my position on his lap and I feel his erection, rock hard, against the inside of my leg. I burrow inside his shirt to kiss his chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
He trails his lips over my eyes, my nose, my cheeks, and finally my mouth. He whispers.
‘I wanted to kiss you, that’s all. I want you to trust me. Go to sleep, sweetheart. Then we’ll talk.’
I’m dimly aware of being picked up. I think Tor kisses my mouth but the touch is so soft that I can’t be sure. I loop an arm around his neck and stroke the hair at his nape. I mumble against his throat.
‘I told you not to carry me.’
He mutters against my temple. ‘Now it’s four times. Morning, Golden.’
I snuggle closer and yawn. I’m not sure why I’m wearing his jacket, but I breathe in the smell of the fabric and him. It can’t be dawn yet; there’s no light filtering through the pane of glass above the front door.
‘Close your eyes,’ he says. His arms tighten around me as he leans forward. He opens a door, and then flicks a switch.
I’m not sure who stiffens first. Maybe it happens at exactly the same time. I’m wide awake. He’s rigid like a statue. His fingers dig into my thighs.
‘What the—’
‘Put me down!’
He doesn’t look at me as my feet touch the ground. He’s looking elsewhere. Grandpa’s folders are laid out on my bed, and around it. I stand paralysed as he picks up a folder. He rifles through receipts, racehorse profiles, and bank statements. Most of them are Grandpa’s. Some are my father’s.
Our eyes meet. His are blank, unreadable. My eyes go to the box on my side table, the one that held my long black boots. I hold my breath when he walks to the table and picks up the yellowed sheet lying on the top of the pile. I know what it is. It’s page eight of a twenty-seven-year-old form guide, listing the horses and jockeys scheduled to race in the Queen Elizabeth Stakes. My father’s name is underlined and there’s a number 1 above it, enclosed in a neat red circle. Two other jockeys riding favourites have ‘out’ written next to their names. The race is the one that Tor told me about, the one that led to the racing inquiry.
I’ve never seen him so grim. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
‘That page was in one of Grandpa’s folders.
In the ceiling above the gable.’
‘Who wrote the notes?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not Grandpa’s writing, or my father’s.’
I wrap Tor’s jacket more tightly around my body. It reaches midway down my thighs. My ivory stockings have a small hole in the right knee. A ladder is working its way up my leg.
Tor is simmering with tension. ‘When were the notes made?’
My words come out in a rush. ‘I suspect on the day the form guide was published, which was the Friday before the race was run. The page was stapled to another receipt that had the earlier date. Grandpa was a stickler for keeping records, but some of my father’s papers were there as well. I think he gave them to Grandpa and asked him to keep them safe.’
‘To hide them.’
‘I don’t know. I’m getting quicker at sorting, working out dates, and figuring out which papers came from my father. I was going to give you the relevant ones. I promise.’
Tor grasps the page so tightly his thumb is white at the tip. ‘When?’ he says.
If I think about last night I’ll burst into tears and won’t be able to say anything at all. ‘I’ll try to finish sorting by the time you get back. Then you can have—’
‘No!’ He turns his back before carefully placing the page into the boot box. By the time he faces me again his temper is under control. His voice is cold.
‘I’ll send Nate to pick everything up. If you refuse to cooperate I’ll use legal means to get what I want. Either way I’ll have to brief Eric.’ He looks at his watch. ‘My flight leaves in four hours. I’m going.’
I hold the front panels of his jacket tightly with one hand, and lift a folder, thinner than most of the others, from the floor. When I open it I see why that is. It relates to a period when I was fifteen and just out of hospital. Grandpa had handed me over to Eric and I’d become his responsibility.
I try to speak calmly. ‘This folder is typical. Receipts for petrol and household expenses, and a letter from Moussa Khoury, my orthopaedic surgeon. If there were anything suspicious in this folder, I’d put it into the boot box. Please don’t send Nate. Or tell Eric.’
His hair is ruffled already. When he runs his fingers through it he messes it up even more. But then he smooths it out.
On the Right Track Page 16